Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I tuck the phone in my jeans pocket and head down the hall with Josie. When we reach the foyer, that inquisitive look from earlier returns to her face—the one that says she wants to ask something. Or maybe she’s working her way up to it.
“Wes,” she begins, as I grab the car keys from the table.
“Yes?”
But she shakes her head, walking toward the stairs to the garage. “It’s nothing.”
Nope. It’s not nothing. It’s never nothing. “Josie,” I say, my tone firm. I’m not worried, but I do want to know what’s on her mind. “What’s going on?”
She stops in her tracks before she goes down the stairs. She turns around, resolute now. “You said this was a date. Right?”
A knot of tension forms in my gut. I’d thought it was crystal clear I was asking her out. “Well, yeah.”
“But…” She lifts her hand, waves it toward the home. “What about the roomie rule?”
“We broke that, didn’t we?” I ask wryly, but it doesn’t quite land as a joke because she’s not only referring to sex. We both know this thing with us isn’t just about what happens between the sheets. I clear my throat, giving her the gravity she deserves. “Are you asking what it means that I’m taking my roommate on a date?”
She shrugs, smiling, looking uncomfortable. “What do we do in public? Like if someone sees? You’re not exactly nobody.”
Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. It barely occurs to me, though it probably should. I do get recognized from time to time. I am a public figure. And roomies or not, I’m still working with her brother, but I don’t think either one of us wants to deal with whatever that means now. Heaving a sigh, I think this through. “I’m not sure I know the right answer. For now, maybe it’s best if we”—I stop and gesture from her to me—“keep this between us?”
She freezes.
And I’ve said the exact wrong thing. I’d better fix it, stat. I step closer, reach for her hand. “I don’t mean a dirty secret like an affair. I just mean let’s keep it between us…as we figure it out.”
Only I don’t know what we’re figuring out. She’s leaving and I’m staying, and we live together. I don’t know if she’d even want more than a simple arrangement if we didn’t have those obstacles between us. Just because I’m developing feelings for her—liar, you already possess monster feelings—doesn’t mean she’s on the same page I am.
I don’t want to pressure her though. “What if we don’t rush defining this,” I suggest, even though I want to define it, I want to stake a claim on her, and I want to tell the whole damn city I’m dating the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.
Yeah, monster fucking feelings that I have to tamp down for now.
She tucks a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, seemingly satisfied. “That works. Especially since I have no idea how he’ll react.” The fact that she doesn’t say her brother’s name tells me she’s a little worried. “Also, I don’t feel like a dirty secret,” she says, curling a fist around my shirt. “But you should keep fucking me dirty in secret.”
Her eyes twinkle with mischief, and I close the short distance between us, grab her ass, and give her a rough kiss. “It’s a deal.”
That settled, we head down the stairs to the garage, where I open the car door for her. She slides into the front seat, and I head to the driver’s side.
Finally, a month and a half later, I’m getting the second date I wanted. I pull out onto the street and slow to a stop at the red light. I steal a glance at her.
Fuck the rules.
I lean across the console, grab her jaw, and kiss her. Maybe to prove a point. That I’ll do this soon. Then, I take her for our second date at last.
Though it hardly feels like a second one.
Route 101 Diner is not a roadside diner like the name implies. More like a waterside one since it sits inside the Ferry Building on The Embarcadero, overlooking the glittering bay. A vintage neon sign beckons us, giving the place a mid-century feel. The walls inside are decorated with black-and-white photos from the 101, the highway that runs along the California coast, overlooking the ocean.
We settle into a booth that comes equipped with a mini jukebox. I nod to it. “You can pick show tunes. Or pop. Or Taylor,” I say.
“You’re assuming that’s what I like,” she counters.
I laugh. “Josie, I’ve heard you singing in the shower.”
“Touché,” she says, then opens the menu.
After we order—veggie burger and fries for her, chicken sandwich and salad for me, which isn’t entirely cheating on my meal plan; it’s just bending it—I say, “This is where I was going to take you if I’d given you that scarf and the letter.”